The Softer Side
by his-little-troll
Summary: To hold the softer side of Sherlolly. One-shorts.
1. Reading Glasses

**Reading Glasses**

Because guys, I can't do it right now. Like, The Black Bag got too much. Just, ugh. I have to take a moment and reacquaint myself with the softer side of living.

"Sweet Lord, Sherlock what is that on your face?" She giggles. Molly Hooper was one of the few who would ever giggle at Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't ask obvious questions, Molly. You'll get obvious answers." He doesn't look up.

"Is that my book? Are you reading Harry Potter?"

"It makes no sense. If he's a wizard, what should he care about the rules? At this point that school has proven incompetent. He's learned more by breaking rules than he's learned by—"

"Oh hush. I love that series. You're on the third book already? Do you have the others?" He glances at her over the top of his glasses.

"No?"

"Sherlock, if you wanted to borrow my book you could have asked me."

"I didn't want to ask." Her face is red, her hands on her hips.

"So you just broke in?"

"Of course not. I used a key." He holds up the spare, flourishing it a bit before returning to his book.

"Where did you get that?" He rolls his eyes, snaps the book shut.

"It's incredibly rude to talk to someone while they're reading." She grins at him.

"You would know all about being rude to people. Why are you hear Sherlock? You could have gone anywhere to read Harry Potter. I know Mary's got a good stack of books at John's place."

"Yes, well, they're rather _engaged _at the moment." His eyes flick up to her and she's sure there's a message to them. She's seen it before, always gone as quickly as it came.

"I'm sorry your best friends been swooped up in love." She's already got her back to him, fixing a dinner of leftovers.

He rolls his eyes, again. She barely catches him as she turns back, a plate balanced on her hand and a glass in the crook of her arm. He witnesses a sly smile creep across her lips.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." She glances at him again, their banter returned.

"No, you've got something going on up there, what is it?"

"Glasses suit you. You look very," She pauses, searching for the right word. "Cute. It's a little nice, seeing you look cute."

"I'm hardly cute, Molly."

She sits, her eyes already fixed on the telly, pink covering her cheeks. She misses the slow turn of smirk on his mouth.


	2. Coffee and a Paper

**Coffee and a Paper**

"You are a dork, Sherlock." She paused, elbow deep in cadaver. "Or a nerd. Or something like that."

"I am not." He's spinning on his stool, occasionally glancing at the results of her autopsy. He's brought in cases for her every day since John left. She keeps reminding him that he'll be back in a week or so, but he never seems to care.

"What's a nerd, Sherlock?" He frowns at her.

"A schoolchild wearing glasses with a calculator?"

"A nerd is someone who gets wrapped up in something else so much that it becomes part of their identity." She looks him over, eyes pausing on his upturned collar and his pocket that she knew held the microscope. His scowl deepens.

"I'm not a nerd." She smiles at him, shrugs, and continues with her work.

The silence passes comfortably until she's finished and washing up, in which he feels the need to remind her again he is in no way a nerd, he is a Consulting Detective and this is his job. She only smiles and shrugs again. Her purse sits on the counter, her arms looping through it before her hands have dried. That's when he spots it. She tries to shove it further down, her face turning a bright red. The reaction only grows his interest.

It's a newspaper, the bottom half of it sticking out, the headline hidden by layers of thick, brightly colored canvas. He expertly swipes it from her hands, sliding it between grasping fingers. At first, he just thinks they've managed a strange typo. They've spelled his name wrong. Or somehow forgotten what they were spelling halfway through.

**SHERLOLLY DOES IT AGAIN.**

His brow furrows, the paper held out from him to check the date and article. Further investigation reveals that the title is not mistaken.

"Have you read this Molly?" She's looking anywhere but him, her mouth pulled tight and her hands fidgeting. She has. She knows he's going to find out she has.

"You kept it?" This question also gets no verbal response. "Hm."

"What?" The look crosses his face. The one he only gets when he's planning an experiment. Social experiments are usually far from his table, but the way he stares at her…

"Would you like to go get coffee with me, Molly?" He moves the article behind his back.

"Why?"

"Because I would like some coffee."

"Yes, but why would you like coffee with me?"

"I fancy some company?"

"You're trying to see what they say, aren't you?" She rolls her eyes but heads out any way.

"What exactly made Lestrade decide to call us that?" He's not really asking her, she can tell. He's found a new mystery. She doesn't answer. He gives her another look, the one that says he's enjoying something she's done. She doesn't know what, but what's the point in questioning him now.

Coffee is uneventful. They sit in a shop, sip on their cups, and Molly nearly suffocates under the silence. She knows it's only her. He's as cool and calm as ever. She's a wired bundle of nerves, and as he probably guessed, she bursts.

"He accidentally called us that to the press. It was a case we were hardly involved in. They just used the name to get readers." She fiddles with the cup handle, sliding her thumb over the rim. "He thinks I'm dating you?"

"No, no… I mean, I'm sure he—"

"It says right here: D.I. Lestrade credits the Sherlolly couple for the upswing of solved cases recently." He skims through the paper. "Shippers of Johnlock? Molly what do they mean Shippers of Johnlock. Why does my name appear melded with so many others?"

"Oh. Well. You know how Mrs. Hudson is always calling you gay? And calling John your boyfriend?" She squirms, hopes it will dawn on him before she has to fully explain.

"Yes? He's married now, that's hardly relevant."

"The internet is a strange place, Sherlock." She blushes brightly, his attention focusing on her.

"The internet? This stuff is on the internet?" His gaze sweeps over her and he makes a realization. "Are you a Shipper of Johnlock?" Her blush spreads.

"No. I'm, uh," Her coffee has to be cold by now. "I'm a Sherlolly all the way." She can feel the drop as he realizes what she said. Waits for the inevitable rejection.

"A Shipper of Sherlolly? Yes, that does sound a bit better, rolls off the tongue a bit." He's awkward now. She knows this isn't his area.

"So, are you a Shipper of Sherlolly, then, Sherlock?" Steam is about to blow from her ears, and she's nearly melted into a puddle, but she asked.

"I am not opposed to it."


	3. Wake Up

**Wake Up**

_You have to wake up, Molly._

She was warm and comfortable, something heavy wrapped around her shoulders. It lay across her chest, seeped into her bones. God, she was tired. She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to sleep, surrounded by this warmth, this smell, forever.

_Please, Molly, wake up today. I've got a case._

Sometimes, when the darkness lifted to hazy light, pain pierced her lungs and made her want to cry out. She can't, and it panics her. She can't breathe, can't think for the smothering pain until something pushes on her hand, warmth spreading, a smooth touch running up her arms. Something whispers to her, incoherent brushes of comfort against her mind. The pain fades, but so does the light.

_Molly, they don't believe me. They want to 'pull the plug' as they say._

_Please, wake up._

The darkness is darker, like velvet on the inside of her lids but the voice sounds desperate. The warmth spreads in languid waves over her insides, her limbs and heart heavy. It's so tempting to sleep here forever… but…

_I'm sorry, Molly. Wake up. Please._

_I will beg if you ask me to._

The light returns briefly, pain exploding across her senses, across her nerves. She feels the pressure against her hand, the whispers roaring in her ear. The pain dulls too quickly, no black, no warmth, no comfort. She's sinking, slipping, sliding to the nothing around her.

_Molly, be strong. Stay with us. We need to know you can breathe._

_Stay with me, Molly._

_Don't leave._

_Please._

She pushes against the weight. She pushes against the warmth. Her heart beats slowly, the sound loud. Her lungs feel sore and heavy. The air is thick as she pulls it in, tremendous effort forcing it back out again.

_That's my girl._

Weeks later, the tremendous effort of breathing has dulled, but she hasn't opened her eyes. The velvety warmth returned only at night, taking on shape and substance with every passing day.

_Two days later, the fruit fly larva were in the next development stage just as they should, with no developmental changes expressed._

_Four cases of extramarital affairs today, Molly._

_John wants to come tomorrow. I told him you'd be awake._

_He didn't laugh at me for being wrong. Highly unusual._

_Wake up, Molly. Please._

_I'm sorry._

Surprisingly, the first time she opened her eyes, she was alone. The doctor's had congratulated her for making it. They asked her the usual questions, did a check-up, and settled her back into her room. They were filling her prescriptions and describing her physical therapy when he burst in.

"I knew you'd pull through." His hair was disheveled, his shirt bloodied, his breath heavy.

"Did you run all the way here?" She was hoarse and tired, but that didn't wipe the smile from his face.

"I'll be honest, Molly. The balance of probability was against you. However, that has never stopped you before, and I knew it wouldn't stop you now."

"Sherlock, you're… you're babbling. Why are you babbling?" She looks at him with heavy lidded eyes, her breathing already evening out.

"She's not falling asleep now is she? She's just slept for weeks, she can't possibly be tired." She hears the doctors trying to explain it to him, as if he's done her some great rudeness.

"No, no, it's ok. It's nice, really." He's fading out, but she can see him get closer.

_Wake up soon, Molly._

When she wakes up again, his head is on her chest, ear placed precisely over her heart. She lifts her hand, ready to run his fingers through his hair when the heart monitor taps his temple. He jumps to full alert, hand clenching hers too tightly. The moment he realizes what he's done, he lets go, eyes connecting to hers.

"I was just checking." He taps the space above her heart.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For all of it."


	4. The Importance of Words

**The Importance of Words**

Sherlock talked often. Words spilled in rapid succession from angled lips, without thought to consequence. But only when important. He could go for days without talking if he had nothing important to say. Or if his thoughts were too important to express to the stale air of his flat.

Silence was easy, safe. He could not scar with silence. He could not ruin with silence. His violin insulted no one.

The easiest dissuasion, a gay man. He should've kept his mouth shut. He'd known it, felt it, but those hands clasping ground teeth. John's look told him, the quiver in her lip told him, her insistence screamed it at him but the flood wouldn't stop. The next time he saw her, no sign of Jim. Of course, Jim turned out to be a psychopath. Maybe he would have noticed had he not been so distracted by those clasped hands.

He said cruel things when irritation and anger swelled against his cool demeanor. When smooth legs and a trim waist stepped in, riveted every male eye to her awkward smile and dazzling eyes. Those lips, imperfect yet always understanding, matched so closely to the wrapping paper. Hair down. Someone special, someone cherished. It called the monster jealousy from his belly and lashed out. His name had been a surprise, unexpected despite years of mild flirtation.

The sinking of his belly told him to remedy it. A thousand ways, but the simplest option leaps at him. So few words, such great impact.

And she struggles as he does, but she tries. Strips him down with awkward phrasing and raw stammers. Reveals the sadness underneath, the understanding of what's to happen. For once, he's shocked and broken and hopeful. But he's broken too late and she slips away.


	5. Kissing Bruises

**Kissing Bruises**

"Stop." Her voice is sharp, quiet, controlled.

The man started handsomely enough. Clean shaven, blond hair, not too much product. His clothes were nicely tailored and his smile wide.

Several drinks later, his hands were far too free for her taste. A strong jaw sagged against a leaning hand, bleary eyes dragging over her body. She regretted wearing the slim fit blue dress. She was cold, and his hands were pawing again at her side.

"Let go. I'm going home."

"Nights not over yet, sweetheart."

"Mine is." She slips from her stool. Her back goes rigid as he stands with her, arms wrapping around her waist. Her face flushes, her mouth open to berate him when someone speaks up.

"Let her go." Deep, smooth voice. Fitted jacket. Calm, cold blue eyes.

"Nah, she's been teasing me all night."

"This is a regular problem for you. Wary glances from the bartender, lack of keys, suit from work. Hair is brittle, skin waxy. Go home before this becomes a bigger problem." It was a warning, not an offer.

"Thanks, Sherlock. He was—"

"I know. Care for a walk home?"

"What were you doing at the bar anyway? You don't drink."

"Just passing by." She noticed the twitch of a smile on his lips.

"I did mention I had a date tonight. Where were you passing by to? Would hate to keep you."

"No worries. The matter handled itself." He stops, eyes narrowed. She's surprised by his hand on her arm, turning her wrist over in his palm. "What is this?" The question hisses between teeth.

"Oh, he got a bit grabby after a few drinks." She tries to pull away, but his soft grip is strong.

"That's more than grabby."

He traces over the faint discoloration, a remnant of fingerprints on her forearm. Anger radiates from him in cool waves and she's suddenly glad the man's cab has already sped off.

"Possessive behavior is an indication of escalating problems. Had I not shown up he may have…" He trails off, but she follows the rest of that thought with flushed cheeks. She had been well aware. He lifts her wrist, kisses each purple smear against her skin with immeasurable gentleness.

"I apologize, Molly Hooper, for not interrupting sooner."


	6. Smokes

**Smokes**

He always smells heavily of cigarette smoke when he leans over her, hands sliding up her sides, forearms strong against her back. His lungs have to be shriveled black bags of ash, but god does she love the taste of his mouth on her. The weight of his body on hers is enough to make her press against him. Curls brush her cheeks, lips pressed against the slope of her neck. She knows where he's supposed to be, he knows what he's breaking by showing up here.

He never removes the jacket. She's sure she's figured out why. She grips the lapels, pulls him back to her, nips his lip with her teeth. Heat against her skin, a moan in her ear. Their tongues slide together, their mouths moving in rough battle. Legs tangle together, sheets flung from the mattress somewhere in their mingling. With one hand she drags, hears the hiss of pain and pleasure as her fingers tangle in crushed silk twists of hair.

She can see his pulse, can feel the line of him pressed against her thigh. Bites and kisses, tongue running over pink skin. He's fully dressed. That just won't do.

Tight buttons pop, clatter, bounce away into the crevices of her room. That famous Belstaff crumples on her cold floor, pale skin heaving. His breath blows across her stomach, his eyes flashing up to hers as he slides against her skin. Stars light her eyelids as ice and fire struggle between them. She arches, the right touch threatening her with the edge.

His returning kiss surprises her, the taste of her salt mingling with tabacco enough to make her moan into his mouth. She feels the smirk only briefly before his hips grind against hers. Pants are no longer an issue.

She's surrounded by his smoke, his taste, his body, but none of it compares to her name choked out on his breath as he slides in her. _Molly._


	7. Got Jokes

**Got Jokes**

Lestrade gazed over her shoulder, peering at her clipboard. She checked over her work, tried to ignore Sherlock rifling through the drawers and coolers for whatever interesting thing he thought lurked in her workspace. The body before her was gruesome. Bloodied chunks of flesh needed piecing together, shrapnel sticking from his chest. It had been the best attempt to distract her from the cause of death she'd experienced in weeks.

"So, what happened then?" Lestrade wouldn't look at the body for more than a few seconds. Occasionally he would try to study it before turning a putrid green and turning away.

"Well, the explosion occurred post mortem. What actually killed him was a stab through the optic nerves directly through the oculus sinister. Guess you can say he's not such a looker, now." She chuckled, Greg staring at her with a mixture of confusion and horror.

To her surprise Sherlock laughed, pausing with his hand over a severed hand she'd meant to give him later. He continued laughing as he carried it out the door, glancing at her for a brief second before shaking his head and continuing on.

"God, you two need help." Lestrade's expression had not changed as he had watched Sherlock leave the building.

"It was a joke! The oculus sinister, it's the left eye." She gestured towards the wound, but Lestrade was already shaking his head the door.


	8. Tailored

**Tailored**

She fell on her bed, every muscle aching. Her day had been long and tedious. Hours of paperwork and then hours of corpses left her dazed. Her jacket was too heavy on her shoulders. Removing every scrap of formaldehyde smelling fabric was enough to lift the weight of work just a smidge. It wasn't until she'd emerged from the shower washed and tingling did she feel revived.

It was to her surprise then that her drawers were not filled with duck covered pyjama pants or slouchy t shirts. Even greater still was her shock when she went to her closet and found not her usual bright, bubbly dresses and loose, comfy slacks, but instead saw dress suits. Slim, smooth, silky. They were sophisticated and smart. Everything she wasn't. She knew who they were from. She only knows one person who could afford to replace everything in her wardrobe with this quality.

She glanced around the room. It wouldn't be the first time he hid himself away in her flat. No signs of him. She's figured out how to tell when he was near.

She slid a pencil skirt over her legs. She felt beautiful, the tailoring perfectly sculpting her calves and bum. She'd have to get proper stockings for them. The blouse that hung with it flattered her, pops of color remannts of her own style. Perhaps her favorite was the blazer. She recognized the style. Boyfriend blazer, the sleeves pulled up her elbows. The reflection in the mirror hardly looked like her, if not for her still dripping hair and still small mouth and still too sharp cheeks.

She felt like a child dressed in her mother's clothes. Suddenly, the woman staring back at her looked ridiculous. What would she even wear these to? They were hardly practical for the morgue. She didn't have dates. She could maybe wear them to meetings, but she didn't know any fancy hairstyles. All she knew were braids and ponytails. Suddenly her style seemed juvenile. Everything felt juvenile. Maybe that had been his point. Maybe he thought she was childish, immature. Maybe he was trying to make her look better. Presentable.

What an arse.

"You don't like it." He's at her doorway. She hadn't even heard him come in. "You liked it until just a second ago. What happened?" He sounds truly puzzled. He's not concerned, just flummoxed.

"I like my old clothes."

"You planning to buy something new." He had made the observation ages ago, but she had forgotten.

"Something Sherlock, not everything." She wants out of the suit, wants out of the burning embarrassed skin she wears. She might as well be a teenager with a schoolyard crush.

"I overstepped."

"You replaced my entire bloody closet, of course you overstepped!" He looks hurt briefly, but he reels it in before she can comment.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't say anything for a moment.

"They don't suit me." She smooths the buttons, a reluctant glance in the mirror confirming she still looks ridiculous. "I'm not… These don't look like me."

"Hm." He comes closer, eyes the cut and the fit. He steps back and she resists the urge to fidget. He's still studying her, taking in every detail. "It's too dull. You're right. It doesn't suit you." He leaves.

She's embarrassed, completely and thoroughly embarrassed as she's always been when he does something for her. She strips the impeccable clothes off and spends the night in the nude. It's her flat after all. She could spend it however she wanted.

The next day she is forced to wear one of the outfits he's had made for her to the morgue and littered among the compliments are snide undercurrents. What's Molly doing in such nice clothes? Where'd she get the money for those? How's she going to work in all that get up? It doesn't help that she really can't work in all the get up, that she spent an hour trying to figure out a suitable hairstyle, and had spent half as long attempting the beautiful, subtle make up she'd seen on other fine women.

She'd gone home halfway through the day out of frustration with the pencil skirt and irritation with the remarks. Well-meaning or not, they sounded cruel. Her door was unlocked, ruffling sounds from her bedroom alerting her that he was in there. He wasn't trying to hide today.

"Sherlock, please stop meddling in my clothes. You've cost me hours at work, and I could honestly use all of those—" Her room was covered in exactly her style of clothing. Flowing dresses. Bright colors. Comfortable, fitted slacks. Flowers and patterns and textures. Her complaint fell away.

"I realized I tried to dress you up as me. Not of course, because I want you to be more like me. Men have a tendency to… to express possession via the sharing of personal clothing or styles and as…" He struggled, but she's turning red already.

"Possession? Like you own me?" The rise in her voice must have alerted him to his folly.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. It was a subconscious decision at best but…" He looks around the room. "These will suit you better. It is just a thank you, for all you have done. I know it was me who wrecked your," his brows drew in, "_thing _with Tom."

"Why clothes Sherlock?"

"From what I understand, nice clothes are a big part of the wedding experience. As I'd deprived you of—" She knew he wasn't like other men. He didn't realize the significance of what he'd done. He didn't realize the depth the gift held. She couldn't hold it back as she kissed him, gratitude against his lips.

He didn't return the affection but she hadn't expected him to. He instead stood there for a long while, eyes scrunched, mouth slightly ajar, body tense. It was several minutes later while she bustled in the kitchen that he smiled, cheeks tinted the palest pink of blushes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lavender**

Sherlock was a man of details. He knows the things that stand out, the senses that make a moment. Everyone assumes that sight is the strongest sense, and while it is the one that most rely on, he knows a secret. Scent is where memories are born and kept and made. Scent is where connections form. So when he notices Molly lingering longer at the lavender in the mart, or sees the lavender candles scattered about her house, he takes note. He remembers it and stores it for when he has the time to begin.

It starts off simple. Shampoo. Something subtle, soft, but still discernable. She wouldn't even realize the connection she'd made. By the magic of firing neurons, associative behaviors, and base human instinct, she would put him in the same positive light that she saw with lavender. Occasionally John would sniff the air, look around puzzled. Once or twice he expressed suspicion with a surprised glance and a dismissing shrug. It worked, in the slightest of ways. Her gaze would linger on him a moment too long. She was coming around the idea.

Being Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't patient. His plan was taking a bit too long, so he helped it along. Lavender body wash. Unfortunately, he'd underestimated the strength this time. No matter if he scrubbed with a different soap afterwards, the smell practically permeated the hallway during his showers.

John didn't bother hiding his amusement. "What, you have a girlfriend?"  
"No. It's an experiment?"

"An experiment in smelling like flowers? You finally trying to attract bees?"

"No, John."

"No really, you smell bloody awful. Mess up and use Janine's old body wash?" Lestrade wrinkled his nose, a good hearted smile splitting his face.

"Lestrade, if you ever mention that girl's name again, I will tell everyone where you—"

"Alright then, no need to get testy." Greg's panic was enough reward. Sherlock was not cruel enough to reveal his and Mycroft's arrangement.

"Sherlock, why do you smell like lavender?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sherlock. Why do you smell like lavender?" He was straight out grinning now. Curse the man, picking up on his habits.

"New wash." Molly looked between the two.

"Why'd you get new wash, again, Sherlock? I was positive you always got the same kind."

"Fancied something different."

"Hm."

"John, what are you getting at?" Molly had a terrible habit of cutting through the bull now. Part of the new Molly with a Backbone.

"He's under the delusion that I've changed to lavender scented wash to impress a girl." Her face falters.

"Oh. Found another girlfriend have we?" He winced. This wasn't going to plan.

"No." This was certainly not how things were supposed to play out. "The human subconscious picks up on certain things and creates associations that are unrelated. So, if I wanted to return myself to a person's good graces and their favorite smell was lavender, I could in turn use that information to create the connection that I was a person they wanted to be around. If I wanted to deepen those ties and create a lasting relationship of their preferred smell and my company, I would make the smell stronger." Molly was red.

"I've lavender candles in my flat. And I received lavender a few weeks ago. Are you…" Her eyes fluttered close, her mouth forming a hesitant smile. "Are you trying to make me attracted to you?"

He didn't answer, but something in his face must have gave him away. She smiled fully now, coming closer to him. Her embrace was kind. "I prefer your scent. It's been the same since we met. It's my favorite."


	10. Wait Room

**Wait Room**

They forced him to wait in a small room while they stabilized her. Intensive care had particular visiting hours and they were ridiculously short. Arguing with the staff nearly got him kicked out so he conceded to frantic pacing.

Her body had been too broken when they'd finally shown up. By the time the ambulance had pulled away the percentage of survival was too low for him to consider. His Molly should never have been there. They always underestimated his Molly.

It was no surprise then, that the doctors underestimated her as well. He could tell before they said anything that there was little hope.

"Let me sit with her."

"What? Sir, we can't just let you sit in the trauma. There's a reason the visiting hours are so short."

"Then put her in a different room." He knows he's unreasonable, can see them decide that too quickly. But he knows. He knows Molly like they don't. She's too strong to give up.

"We can't just—"

"I don't usually do this." It's mumbled, but they can hear it. "Put her in a different room or you will have orders from higher up to put her in a different room, with protection. She was recently attacked by a man with connections you can't even begin to imagine. It is a matter of great importance that she is properly protected."

"To who, brother mine?" His brother had entered scene too smug for the occasion.

"If you do not wipe the smile from your face, I will." He's unreasonable, and he sees the light of irritation flicker into his brother's eyes.

"I was rather determined to do you a favor, brother. Wouldn't do to bite the hand that feeds you, would it?"

"She's not food, Mycroft."

"Don't be touchy." Mycroft turned towards the flustered doctor. Incompetent man watching over his Molly. "Take the girl to a more comfortable room, and afford her the best care. It is actually imperative that she survive if at all possible." His brother gave him a peculiar look. "England may depend on it."

By the time he fights his way back to her new room, it is nightfall. She looks like she's sleeping, if a bit uncomfortable with a mouth bit and several monitors hooked up to her. She shivered against the chill in the room. Or it was an effect of her medicine. For once, Sherlock did not try to read it. He didn't want to know. The chances were so low.

"You have to wake up, Molly." He places his jacket over her, trying and failing to ignore the way the dark fabric highlighted her pale skin.

He doesn't sleep through the night. Chest just barely lifting in breath, in time to the whining of the machines. A nervous tic, he counts the breaths. In and out, up and down. A slight movement of hope. Nothing else moves. She looks unnatural, her arms at her side her face pointed towards the ceiling, eyes unmoving. It irks him, like a smothering weight on his own lungs.

Two days later, he's been called in by Lestrade. The man is insistent, and he realizes he's worrying them. After another four calls, two from John and two from Lestrade, and he's being dragged out. They avoid looking at her limp body. He knows what the doctors have said. A small part of him fears he'll come back and she'll be gone. They'll give up on her while he's not there to keep them from it. So he tries, though he knows it's futile, to warn her.

"Please, Molly, wake up today. I've got a case."

When he comes back her monitors are going mad, the doctors scrambling in all directions. Her lungs are struggling. He doesn't think, doesn't consider. He smooths her hair back, whispers in her ear. He doesn't know what he's saying or if he's saying anything. Inexplicably, she calms. He realizes he's holding her hand, much too tightly. They're pumping her with medicine and staring at him with pity. They have a brief conversation with him about his 'options'. He's never been a kind man. He's absolutely brutal at their suggestion, and he's sure more than once he called them idiots.

It is with fear that he comes by her side this time. "Molly, they don't believe me. They want to 'pull the plug' as they say." He pauses a moment, considering. Her hand is still in his and for the moment it is warm. He knows how cold it will be if they do what they've threatened. "Please, wake up." Her heart is slowing.

He closes his eyes, feels the tug of sleep and waves it off. "I'm sorry, Molly. Wake up. Please."

The next day he is outnumbered. Lestrade cries, Mary cries, they're all crying like she's already gone. They inform him the doctors can't keep her breathing with the machine for very much longer. It's today. They've decided while he watched over her.

"Molly, be strong. Stay with us. We need to know you can breathe." The nurse's voice was sugary sweet and sickening. He pushes her aside.

"Stay with me, Molly." He's got her hand, watching them pull the tube from her mouth. "Don't leave." Immediately her vitals fell off, too low too quickly. She wasn't going to make it. "Please." It's a whisper, a small plea in a cacophony of beeps and buzzes.

It was only a few seconds. Just a moment of too quiet as she faded away. And then a flutter. A small gasp, the smallest inhale. And the smallest exhale. A breath. Her own breath with the power of her own lungs.

"That's my girl." He still has to sit, still holding her hand. He's dizzy and relieved and he can feel the sting of tears.

John forces him to take cases during the day. He knows the man still worries, still thinks Molly could be gone any day now. It's hard to argue with them. She still isn't awake. It's been a week since they took that awful tube from her mouth. She's breathing on her own, but nothing else.

So he talks to her. About experiments.

"Two days later, the fruit fly larva were in the next development stage just as they should, with no developmental changes expressed."

About cases.

"Four cases of extramarital affairs today, Molly."

About John.

"John wants to come tomorrow. I told him you'd be awake."

He had hoped that would prompt her into consciousness. It doesn't.

"He didn't laugh at me for being wrong. Highly unusual."

Most of all, he asks her to wake up. Every night.

"Wake up, Molly. Please."

More often than that…

"I'm sorry."

He gets the call hours after she's actually woke up and it irritates him to no end. He wanted to be there. He wanted to be beside her. He'd waited long enough.

"I knew you'd pull through." She looks too tired and for a brief moment his heart is paralyzed in fear. She looks like a ghost. But that stupid grin never leaves his face. His mind knows what his heart does not. She's alive.

"Did you run all the way here?" It's not the perfect voice he expected, smooth and bright as she always was.

"I'll be honest, Molly. The balance of probability was against you. However, that has never stopped you before, and I knew it wouldn't stop you now." He realizes too late that he looks a mess. She doesn't seem to mind, but she looks too tired. She's half asleep already and he feels that panic start to claw his chest.

"Sherlock, you're… you're babbling. Why are you babbling?" The question is mumbled and he doesn't have an answer. He hadn't even realized.

"She's not falling asleep now is she? She's just slept for weeks, she can't possibly be tired." It comes out sounding harsh, but it's fear talking and he can't stop it. The doctors try to reprimand him.

"No, no, it's ok. It's nice, really." She's tipping over into dreams, her body clearly exhausted from all the hell it'd endured. He calms himself, taking deep breaths as he moves towards her.

He can smell her hair as he leans over her, the natural scent unhindered by her shampoo or wash. Just Molly. "Wake up soon, Molly." A quieter whisper. He's sure the doctor's don't hear it, but he knows she does.

It's been too long since he'd slept. He'd only just convinced himself to check her heart beat, to time and make sure she's well, when suddenly something bumps against his head and he realizes she's awake. She's caught him with his head against her chest, sleeping soundly.

"I was just checking." He taps, as if she didn't realize what he meant.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For all of it."


	11. Her Room

**Her Room**

The lights are off. Her room is one of the few with a window. A setting sun lights the walls. They're goldenrod, the perfect shade for her. And covered with pictures. Pictures of her smile, of the crease of her eyes, the crinkle in her nose when she's laughing. Pictures of the worry on her face when he said he was going to die. This room whispers with her voice. _What do you need? You look sad. You can have me. I've loved today._

They repeated like a soft mantra. It was her bed in the middle of the room. This was the only room with a bed. His place of rest. Where he put his head when all was overwhelmed. He would lay in this space, with its lighting from the death of the day, and listen to her reassurance. He would flip through the pictures of memory, through the way she had looked back at him when he'd left. She thought he didn't notice from all the music and wedding guests, but he had. Through the way she asked him for coffee. The way she gave him that sharp look, told him he'd been not good. The feel of her cheek against his lip. The weight of her gaze as he'd left her in her flat.

He had spent more time here than ever, lately. Laying on her bed, in this goldenrod room, in the sun and sounds and warmth of her. John thought he was just going through the cases he'd let pile up. He was always sure to ask her about them, but he couldn't seem to bring her into this room with him. She only came to him in moments of extreme duress and he'd only feel her slaps if he attempted any of that again. Her room might disappear altogether.

It was all he had left of her, this room with its memories and its love and its hope. All that was left of his Molly Hooper.


	12. The Impermanence of Death

**The Impermanence of Death**

She had disappeared, no body, no signs, no anything. She was just gone. Moriarty had left only a single note after his escapade with the telly. Written in clear woman's handwriting, it had glared at him from the desk in Bart's, where Molly was last seen putting on her lab coat.

_Dear Sherl,_

_I've quite the lovely present waiting for me here. Imagine my surprise when she was all dressed up and ready for me with no protection, no security, no guardian angel. I have to wonder if you even cared for her at all, but something about the scent of her tells me you do. She just smelled so like you. Must be all that time in the sheets, yeah?  
Well, by the time you see this letter, we'll be gone. So sorry to have missed you. _

_I won. Game over. _

That had been four years ago today. Several withered flowers lay on the empty grave. Everyone had insisted on having a formal funeral for her when they'd received grisly evidence that she had died. It was hard to argue with a crudely severed leg. Even Mycroft had pitied him when he'd argued that legs were hardly vital organs.

Without a body, it was impossible to quiet the nagging voice in his head that said he didn't have all the facts, he couldn't properly deduce that she'd died. It wasn't Moriarty's modus operandi to just take a hostage, kill her, and not gloat about it. Of course, more than once his mind had pointed out that it was far more likely that Moriarty was dead, and Molly's kidnapper was an ex-lover or even possibly a sibling. Too many questions.

He took only highly important cases now. John had quit telling him he needed to let it go. Instead, he kept all of his nagging centered on forcing Sherlock to eat. Since he was on a never ending case, it was difficult to remember that his body still needed sustenance, with or without any new leads.

There had never been any leads.

Even Mary couldn't find any information. She had been resolute in not contacting anyone who would 'rain fire unto her family'. Arguing with her proved useless. Baby Emma was a trump card, winning every fight in this spectrum of their lives. Those most likely to know where Molly was were also the ones most upset with her for leaving Moriarty's network. (That had been another nasty row when it came out, but she had stood just as strongly by her love for John then as in the beginning.)

Mycroft had stretched his fingers as far as he could into every foreign soil without starting any wars. She had disappeared.

And now, four years later, he stood at this marker. It was always a different flower. He'd only realized after it was too late that there was so much he'd wanted to know about his pathologist. He didn't know what her favorites were, so he'd brought her everything.

Occasionally he would speak to her in his mind palace, if he was stuck on a particularly difficult puzzle piece in a case. She always carried him through it, but it wasn't enough. Every time he came up with a new theory as to where she may be or how she may have survived, he vowed to himself this time he wouldn't wait. He wouldn't make excuses.

Four years was a long time to make promises. Four years was a long time to burn alive with hope that never went anywhere. He was a shell of despair, holding a flower, and staring at dead grass. Molly wasn't even in there. It's not like he was leaving a flower at her grave. It was a just a stone with her name on it.

Something rustled behind him, drew his attention to the leaves fluttering across the cemetery. He's never been overly fond of cemeteries, no matter how dark people have accused him of being. He's used to the clatter of leaves in the fall, but this sounded different.

There was a thump, a grunt, a sharp inhale. He didn't dare to hope anymore.

_What do you need?_

The question screamed against the silence in his head, her voice clearer than it had been in years. She was there, tanned from wherever she'd come from, brown eyed, short haired now. Same height, more muscle, cheeks a bright red. She looked so different, but so similar. Same nose curving up at the end, same sharp, small lips turning up at the corners, same pointed chin.

"Molly?" _He's always been able to trust his own mind, but not right now. This is a scene from one too many of his dreams. _"Molly?"

She nods, leaning heavily on a crutch. Her missing leg, the right one (it's been so long since he's seen any part of her), is wrapped just above the knee. He sees they also managed a couple of her fingers, and she's got one nasty scar on her arm.

"You're…" What did he even say? You're ok? You're here?

"Not dead?" She's sniffling, holding back tears. Still? After all this time? "I heard you never gave up on me. You're the only one."

"I knew you couldn't be dead Molly Hooper. I would know the moment it happened and I never knew, so… it hadn't happened." It sounded terribly sentimental and superstitious and a bit too much like a confession but it had been too long for him to care.

She wobbles over to him, chunks her crutch over to the side, and he's suddenly cradling a petite frame that's shifted from the last time he held her. He savors the contact before he realizes she's talking into his jacket. He leans back, looks at her face. She's full on crying now, all over his shirt. He registers briefly that he's in some sort of shock, which is why he's being rather calm.

"I mean, I know I'm a bit damaged now, but I tried to get back to you in good shape." She gestures down at the leg and he knows she's making one of those jokes she's god-awful at but he laughs because Molly Hooper is making a joke and is decidedly not dead. "It was really tough, actually. He had me—"

He finally understood something about John's reaction when he'd revealed he wasn't dead. He did not have the slightest desire to hear an explanation. None. Of course, he didn't want to hit her in the face. His body was too alive for that, too thrilled.

So he kissed her. He held her shoulders, pushed his lips to hers, breathed in the scent that was Molly, and kissed her until he had stars in his eyes. From the quick rise and fall of her chest, she did too.

"Careful now, can't go making me weak in the knees, I've only got one." She tries to chuckle, but he can see it like he sees everything. He is still Sherlock Holmes, after all. She's afraid because she's changed.

"Molly Hooper, no matter what you had to do to get home, no matter what they've taken from you, physically and not, you are…" He falters. He's never been good with words, he's never been good at putting things right. "You are everything to me, Molly Hooper."

It's been four years of healing and learning and growing and fighting, but Molly Hooper made it to the other side. And he was here waiting.


	13. You

**You**

Molly was certain that something was going on.

She could have imagined it. She was just grocery shopping, after all. Everyone needed groceries. So a head of bobbing curls and bright eyes popping up beside her to briefly analyze her cart and disappear down a separate aisle was hardly worth noting.

Except, John had complained many times (sometimes loudly) about the fact Sherlock Holmes would starve to death before getting his own groceries. Shaking off that thought was easy.

The next time, she wasn't so sure. At first, it hadn't even been him that she'd noticed. Billy Wiggins sat in front of the restaurant that her date invited her to. She watched him slip a phone into his pocket after he accepted her change, "Shezza" lighting the screen. She'd frowned, but entered the rather cheap establishment regardless. She'd not been expecting anything too fancy from the man, she knew he had his own problems.  
Of course, she had expected him to show up. That had been the point of inviting her, right?

When Shezza—ahem—Sherlock scowled into the dining room, Molly was not shocked to see him. Nor did his dramatic show of surprise phase her. She'd invited him to sit with her, ordered her chips, and listened to him prattle on about his last case while he devoured twice his weight in fried goods. He pondered through a few experiment ideas with her, nodding when he found her correct and giving her withering stares when she was off. By the time she went home she felt she'd at least had an enjoyable time. Probably more so than if she'd actually gone on a date.

The man showing up at Bart's wasn't unusual. Sherlock being at Bart's before she was, eyes already glued to a microscope, the sun just creeping over the horizon, was unheard of. He was a night owl. He had always been a night owl. That he would be up before the sun could mean only two things. He'd either come here with a great purpose, or he'd not slept. And he didn't appear particularly tired.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you in my lab?" He glanced up at her, rolled his eyes and went back to his samples.

A few hours, he left, not having said anything or done anything unusual. If nothing else, this would have been the first normal interaction she'd had with him in months if not for the time. And then she'd found it. Propped against the side of his microscope that was blocked from her view was a small note on thick paper. It read simply, "_Baker Street, 5 o clock_."

Assuming that he needed her help with yet another set of experiments was natural. What other reason would he need her at Bart's for? So she hadn't expected to see him until she arrived in his flat. Such may have been the case if she were anyone else. One ridiculous shuffling businessman with his face shoved in a paper was all it took for her to recognize him. He hadn't thought to change his gait this time, he should've known she'd see.

"Sherlock?" The paper went absolutely still, the steps faltering to a stop. "Sherlock Holmes, is that you?"

"Oh, Molly, there you are." She waited for an explanation, but he just stood, staring at her. A hat cocked on top of his curls gave him a completely flustered appearance. She found herself holding in a giggle.

"Yes, and I've two hours before I'm supposed to be at your place. What on earth are you doing hanging about my flat?"

"Well, yes… that." He didn't elaborate, just stared at her again. He rocked back on his heels once, rolled his eyes, and walked away. The niggling thought that he'd had something to say to her came and went as she got changed.

When she did show up, Baker Street was not set up for experiments. No specimens lined his table, no equipment set out for either of them on his chairs, no fizzing or popping or burning liquids in odd shaped containers. Instead, she found the lights low, the sound of Sherlock's violin filling the air with Chopin's Nocturnes. His couch was and coffee table were cleared, a small folder closed on the plain top. A glass of wine perched beside it, a glass she was careful not to drink. John had been livid for weeks after finding out that Sherlock had 'drugged' him for an experiment. She didn't think Sherlock would mean anything by it, but she wasn't willing to be a guinea pig.

She cleared her throat, eliciting a horrible shriek from Sherlock's playing. Startling Sherlock Holmes? That was a first.

When he stepped out from his room she tried to hide her smile. He wore the purple shirt, her favorite. She'd never told him, but she knew he knew. He hadn't worn his jacket or his coat this time, and she couldn't help but notice he looked rather impressive, standing in all his decadence. She'd probably never get over the man if he continued looking like that.

After too long of a stifling silence, Sherlock moved to the front of the room. With one deep breath and a strong posture, he began to play for her. She didn't know exactly what she was supposed to do.

It was haunting. The pace was not at all slow, but she would hardly call this an upbeat piece. It reminded her of autumn, of the pause between breathing. It filled her with the apprehension of grief. The buildup of a fall, the crash of pain and fear and hope in landing. The notes pierced the silence with poignant emotion. Even had the room been silent, Sherlock's face told all.

His eyes closed, his face tilted to her, his curls bouncing. His hands moved gracefully. The bow slid smooth against the strings. He did not dance or sway or move with the rise and fall of the music. He stood still, captured in the severity of sound. She was breathless just to watch it.

She was not sure how long she listened, but by the end she was in tears. He nodded to the file and marched to red faced to his room.

She opened it, and written at the top of several pages of sheet music it said simply "You."


	14. Sleeping Journeys

**Sleeping Journeys**

Molly shifted towards the warmth wrapped around her waist. She'd been having the most peculiar dream of mysteries and detective work and Belfast jackets when she was jostled away by a dip in her bed. In her drowsy state she hadn't even questioned it when strong arms had wrapped around her and the smell of smoke stained her sheets.

The story changed entirely when she woke up the next morning and realized she hadn't dreamed Sherlock's arms holding her. He was still dressed in his blue robe and striped bottoms, curled around her possessively. She'd been confused and then flattered. Then she remembered that he shouldn't be entering her house at night without her permission to climb in her bed (also without permission).

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" He didn't stir at her words. No doubt it was too early for his mind to even remotely begin working. Rich men had the luxury of sleeping in to all hours of the day. Seven AM was an ungodly hour for him. She'd have to be louder. "SHERLOCK."

He jumped, hands flying away from her as if scalded.

"Molly, what on earth are you doing in my bed?"

"You're bed?"

He would be adorable if he wasn't scowling at her from her sheets. She flushed and looked away. Wrapped in her sheets, barely decent and altogether vulnerable, she'd hardly seen him look more handsome. Curse the man, she was supposed to be justifiably annoyed. At least.

He woke enough to realize he wasn't surrounded by the dark and cluttered mess of his room. Her own yellow walls and kitten covered covers sunk in, turning his face a deep shade of red. He didn't even explain anything, just got up and left.

She really should have reminded her that she had an extra set of clothes for him from his stay in her apartment during his 'holiday'.

She wondered about it all day at work, noting that he did not show up for the experiment he'd told her he needed help with. Embarrassed absence wasn't exactly surprising, but to keep Sherlock from such an interesting bacteriophage, he had to be mortified.

When she'd finally settled down after work and grocery shopping and dinner, she had landed hard on her bed and fell to instant sleep.

She woke the next morning to find her limbs entangled once more with Sherlock's. He was in his Belfast this time, still wearing his button up and slacks. Slick shoe heels cut into her calves. She studied his face this time, noting he looked peaceful and worn. Dark circles blackened his eyes even in sleep. He worked too hard these days. Removing her arms and legs from his was difficult but he didn't wake.

"Sherlock?" He mumbled, turned again in her purple kitten bedcovers. "Sherlock, wake up." She nudged him, watched as his eyelids fluttered open. He smiled at her a moment before fully coming to himself.

His eyes widened, his jaw slackened for a moment before he frowned. Once more, without a word he marched from her room.

A suspicion whispered in her mind. Of course, if she was right he was endangering himself, showing up in her place every night.

When she lay down this time, she refused to sleep. A rattle sounded at her door at three AM. Shadows shifted as he crossed her living room, attentive even in sleep to make sure he locked the door behind him. She was glad she kept a clean house. At least he didn't fall over any mess. His eyes were open, and if she hadn't known for sure that he was asleep, she'd have believed he'd come here on purpose. At least he wasn't a sexsomniac.

"Sherlock, you should go home, yeah?" He furrowed his brows, tilted his head. He certainly seemed to think he was home. "Here, let me walk you. We'll just get back to bed, ok?" Soft voice, no startling noises. Easy, light leading touch.

By the time she'd climbed into the cab with him (had he actually walked, asleep, all the way over to her flat?), he'd laid his head on her shoulder and dozed into sleep. Explaining why he was waking up in a cab was going to be awkward.

The cabby watched her expectantly when he pulled up to Baker Street. She'd only had enough to get him here, she didn't have enough to get home. Luckily, she didn't have work the next day.

"Sherlock, come on. Let's go inside now." She hoped he'd be as accommodating awake as he had been asleep. No such luck.

"Molly?" Shivers ran up her spine. His voice was deep and thick with exhaustion. "Where exactly are we?"

"We're going to Baker Street. Come on, I'll explain in the morning." He shimmied from the cab with a grunt and crossed arms.

He shuffled into his room and collapse onto his bed, snoring within minutes. Before long she was nestled in John's old room, dusty comforter pulled up to her chin. She'd never realized before how chilly 221B could be.

She woke in the morning warm and entirely too comfortable for being in a strange bed. Heat pressed against her back, soft breath sounding in her ears. A hand was clasped in hers, her body pinned by strong arms. Through the fog of sleep and comfort, she realized Sherlock had once again found her.

She'd thought he was just going to her house because of the safety it had once offered. That no longer appeared to be the case. He was sleepwalking to her specifically then?

"Sherlock?" He murmured in her ear, letting go of her hand to pull her closer to him. Something hot pressed against her lower back. She flushed. "Sherlock, why aren't you in bed?"

"I am in bed." Large hands slid down her side, resting on her hips.

"Why aren't you in your bed, Sherlock?" He didn't have a sensible response, just a mumble against her neck. After a moment of reveling in the touches, she pulled away.

Once she stood, he appeared to wake up. He'd glanced around, clearly confused before his eyes landed on her. He rubbed his lids with his palms, a groan issuing from the back of his throat.

"Good morning to you, too." She tried and failed not to laugh. "So, why aren't you in your bed?"

"It appears I'm in the guest room." Diverting the question. She'd grown accustomed to his habits.

"Yes, I see that. It appears you follow me wherever I manage to sleep. So why?"

"I can hardly know, can I?"

"I never thought you'd be sleepwalking, but I guess it only makes sense." She crawled across the bed to poke his forehead. "That brain of yours never quits."

He grimaced. She laughed.

"You know, it's odd. Sleepwalking usually happens during NREM cycles. NREM usually works with problem solving and functionality." She grinned at the deepened red of his cheeks. Science and facts could be used against him as much as they helped him. "What then could the great Sherlock Holmes need help solving?" She giggled as he crossed his arms, his fingers drumming against his coat.

"Hush." The tone was almost rude, if not for the spreading cheek down his neck.

"Hm." A thin finger tapped on her chin, brown eyes cutting to his reluctant look.

"What?"

"Well, we can't have you trekking all the way to my house in your sleep. You'll get hit or kidnapped or some other horrifying thing. Heaven knows you've enough enemies. No, it's settled." She grinned, sauntering from the room. She called behind her, "I'll just have to move in."


	15. Slip of the Tongue

**Slip of the Tongue**

_The first._

"We'll have to take the samples to my Molly."

John's head swung around, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "We'll have to what?"

"We'll have to take the samples to Molly?" If the detective had recognized his mistake, he did not acknowledge it.

"Ok then."

_The second._

"He'll be after my Molly next." He'd mumbled it under his breath, one of the musings out loud that he'd never admit to.

"He'll be after who?"

"Molly. He'll be after Molly, John. Isn't that obvious?" He misread John's disbelieving expression. "He blames her for helping me. He'll certainly want revenge on her. My pathologist is not safe in Bart's."

"Your pathologist? What do you plan to do then?"

"Remove her from Bart's of course."

"Of course."

_The third._

"Sherlock, who are you making those for?" Mary picked up a strangely shaped chocolate, several molds set out to cool.

"It's my Molly's birthday. It is my understanding chocolates and gifts are to be expected when one is to show appreciation for a colleague." His shoulders hunched over a beaker where she saw him mixing something red and thick.

"A colleague? Whose birthday is it again?"

"You and your husband should invest in hearing aids. I am constantly having to repeat myself. Molly's! It's Molly's birthday." He squinted at the dropper, measuring exact amounts of extract. "Shouldn't you know that? Aren't you and her friends of some sort?"

John laughed from his chair. "Do you even realize you say that out loud?"

"Say what?"

Mary giggled. "Nothing, nothing."

_The fourth._

Sherlock cheeks heated in an unpleasant display of embarrassment. He appeared to have overestimated the appropriate amount of birthday effort. She was altogether too excited for this to be the correct platonic amount of work.

"Sherlock, are all of these shaped like different bones and organs? Where did you even get the molds for these?"

"Well I made some, ordered many off the ever pleasing web, and found one from the local grocers." She inspected a handful of them before popping one in her mouth.

She grinned as she chewed. "That is delicious. Truly, how'd you do that? That's a great balance of raspberry to dark chocolate."

"Graduate chemist, remember?" He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Happy Birthday, my Molly."


	16. Meat Dagger

Tom had thought he misheard her the first time. Or that she was having some sort of strange dream. It had been mumbled, her head leaned against the arm of the couch. It had almost been kind of cute. She was dreaming about him. In a wedding setting, probably. Sure, she chose a less than flattering name, but he knew who she meant. Only one person had said "meat dagger", after all.

So the next time she said it, he tried to blow it off. She hadn't even realized. They'd just been casually talking about work and he'd been picking at her. Her sharp "Shut up, Meat Dagger," had surprised him. When he tried to clarify all he got was a gathered brow and quirked lip.

Today was the final straw. She'd been calling him Meat Dagger all week, but today was it.

"Hand me the remote please, Meat Dagger."

"What did you call me?" She looked absolutely horrified. It confirmed everything.

"Tom?" She knew he wasn't falling for it.

"You've been calling me meat dagger all week. All week. Why have you been calling me meat dagger?"

"It's just. You know I work in a morgue and it's just… There's not a single thing about your theory that makes any sense."

"Molly, it was a week ago. It can't possibly be bothering you now."

She didn't respond.

"Have you thought of me as Meat Dagger this entire time?" His cheeks flamed red.

"Of course not. I mean, sometimes Sherlock calls you that. He's rather bad with names."

"Sherlock?" She had been hanging out with Sherlock? "When's he been around you? And what are you saying about me?"

"He just asks about you. Nothing important. Makes sure you're treating me ok an all. He's good friend." She wasn't looking at him.

"When do you two meet up for these chats?"

"Well, he's pretty involved in a case. Sometimes he needs to hide out for a bit, so he…" She faded off, but he didn't miss the way her eyes flitted to her bedroom.

"In your room? He needs to hide out in your room?"

"I take the guest room!"

"We have sex in that bed!"

"Well, not while he's here. Besides, he hardly ever comes here. It's not a big deal, really."

"It's a big deal! He sleeps in your bed and makes fun of me, and clearly he's influenced your opinion of me."

"No, no he has not. I thought it was a ridiculous theory without his influence."

"Molly."

"It was, Tom."

"So you stab me with a fork, call me names, and let Sherlock Holmes sleep in your bed?"

"Did someone say my name?" Molly put her face in her hands as Sherlock walked out from the shower, towel wrapped and hair wet. So it hadn't started raining outside after all.

"What the bloody hell is he doing here?"

"Well, he needed a place to stay…"


	17. Lab Coats

She stood in Bart's, back bent over a microscope. Something seemed off about her. Hair down, mouth painted red. Not all that unusual. She must have had a date. The difference nagged at him. What was he even doing in Bart's? He didn't remember deciding to come here. He didn't have any experiments that he could think of.

So he studied her for a moment. Her hair was tussled, her mouth breaking in a grin as she noticed him. She turned just her neck, purposefully. As though she were hiding something, her shoulders pointing away from him.

"Hello, Sherlock. What are you doing here?" Her voice wasn't its usually light-hearted tone, but deeper, breathy. He felt himself flush. He didn't answer.

She flashed another grin, amusement practically radiating off her. She finally turned towards him and he couldn't help it. His gaze dropped to a petite exposed body. She was not the woman, she did not have strong curves and sharp angles. She was softness incarnate. A gentle slope of flesh, the smooth curve of hips. A flat stomach connecting to long legs. Every bit of it exposed beneath a stark white lab coat. All breath left him at once. He forced himself to look back at her face, surprised to see her smug brown eyes staring back at him.

"A bit… a bit underdressed for lab work aren't we, Molly?"

"I don't know, you tell me." She looked down at her breasts, cupped with her hands and frowned a bit, as if studying them. "Are they really a bit small?"

"No." The answer was fast, before he had time to realize he was being played. She chuckled darkly. He couldn't move.

"What about my hips?" She brushed the coat back, revealing the pale, subtle flare. "Are they a bit narrow maybe?" He doesn't groan, but it's a close miss when she flicks long lashed up to him, eyes positively glowing with amusement.

"Of course not. Wherever did you get that idea?" He can't force himself away from her newly exposed flesh. Why was he in Bart's again?

"Might've put on a few pounds." Thin fingers run over her stomach, venturing dangerously low.

"Stop it." Those red lips quirk impishly. Not too small now are they? She moves closer, whispers in his ear.

"Sherlock, what do you think?"

He wakes up in a pool of sweat and with a rather uncomfortable condition. His mind is racing with Molly Hooper. This was a most unusual turn of events, though not entirely unexpected to be honest.

He's up and dressed in minutes, out the door and in a cab. It's a quick drive, but not too quick where he doesn't realize it's 3AM. She wouldn't be happy with his interruption. At least, not at first.

He didn't hesitate to knock on her door.

"God, Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Do you have your lab coat?"


End file.
